


Beware of the Old Man...

by LadyLustful



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor deserves family who love him, Connor is a secret troll, Connor is a vaguely terrifying old man, Eventually an anthology of slices of life, F/M, Family, Fluff, Gen, Gen Work, Humor, Mentor!Connor, Mostly Sweet, OC-Connor's Great-Granddaughter, Old!Connor, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLustful/pseuds/LadyLustful
Summary: ... in a profession where most men die young.Or, a look at an old Connor.





	Beware of the Old Man...

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my late grandfather, who, god rest his soul, was climbing trees and chopping wood at age 85, and would probably have done so at age 90, had he not developed a metastatic cancer and died. And he told great stories, which made me appreciate a good story, and want to tell tales of my own.  
> For some reason, when I imagine Connor post ACIII, I really see him living to an old, old age in ridiculously (for that age) good health, mentoring generations of Assassins (including the rebellious progeny of one Master Cormac, and his own children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. E: Oh, and Ethan Frye. He totally mentors Ethan), and scaring visitors to the homestead because "holy fuck there's an old Indian man running in the trees". Oh, and scaring Assassin recruits with surprise training drills.  
> Set around 1840, so Connor is in his eighties.

"There was an old man in the tree", said Jonathan.  
Rachel frowned at her fiance, her pretty black eyes narrowing in concentration. She was a tall woman, broad shouldered but lithe, with thick black hair pulled in a bun and tan skin. In a certain light, she looked vaguely Native.  
"Really?"  
"Well, I think he was. Six foot tall and with long white hair, maybe carrying an axe?"  
Rachel said nothing.  
Jonathan grew increasingly more nervous as they rode on, the woods silent around them.  
Then...  
"There!" he hissed in an urgent whisper. "I saw him again!"  
"Why are you whispering?"  
"I don't know what he wants. Maybe he wants to attack us, maybe he'll get angry that we're talking about him."  
"Don't be silly. Nobody wants to attack us. Not a day's ride from New York and certainly not a mile from Davenport Homestead. Expecially", Rachel's lips curled in amusement at something Jonathan was not privy to, "tree-climbing, axe-wielding old men."  
They ride on in silence again.  
"There!", hisses Jonathan. "You'd bloody better believe me, Rachel Kenway! I don't know what this man wants but I sure as 'ell saw 'im, closer than before. Six foot if he's an inch, sixty if he's a day, loose white hair down to his shoulder, jacket with fringes, bow and axe. Big old scary Native man."  
"I believe you, Jonathan. Now do calm down. Panic does not become you."  
The rest of the ride they pass in silence, Jonathan sulking, Rachel pensive. Soon the white walls and red roof of the Manor appear in sight.  
They dismount and walk to the door. A tall, old Native man with long white hair is waiting for them.  
"You!" exclaims Jonathan. "I saw you! You were tailing us, in the trees, for whatever reason..."  
The old man's lips do something, that, were it a thousand times amplified, might have been a shadow of a smile.  
"Jonathan", Rachel interjects, hands on her hips, "allow me to introduce the Mentor of the American Brotherhood, my great-grandfather, Connor Kenway. Or Ratonhnhaké:ton, to those that can pronounce it."  
"I am honoured, sir."  
"Grandpa, this is Jonathan Thomas, surgeon, assassin apprentice and my fiance."  
"So how was your mission?", asks Connor as they walk across the mansion grounds. Jonathan decides he likes the older man well enough when he's not lurking in trees being creepy.  
"In Redemption? Dreadful. An utter fiasco. It appears my dark looks have a way of... inspiring dark looks, among other unpleasantness."  
"Ridiculous", said the old man, in a tone of voice most men reserved for "I am going to rip out your throat with my teeth and shove your ripped-off dick in the resulting hole, and I will damn well enjoy it".  
"I know, Hsótha. But we cannot help it. Still, there is one, shall we say, redeeming quality to the situation. I met Jonathan."  
"Speaking of the novice. How many times did he spot me?"  
"Three. He did notice what you were armed with."  
"That's still a poor score. He should have done at least six. Don't worry, lad, we will still make an Assassin out of you."  
"Is paranoia a requirement?", asks Jonathan, because he is a fool who speaks before he thinks, if he thinks at all, especially to old scary men who are around thrice his age and still could kill him with one hand, in their sleep.  
"No, but it's useful when they are out to get you," smirks Rachel.

**Author's Note:**

> Hsótha - Mohawk for grandfather, or so I am told


End file.
